


Learning the Long Way Around

by TriffidsandCuckoos



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Conversations, First Meetings, Fluff, M/M, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:08:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24885097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriffidsandCuckoos/pseuds/TriffidsandCuckoos
Summary: Really, what are you supposed to do on walks in the Highlands other than discuss your shared love life? Especially when you're not really supposed to Know things but also have a history of being quite breathtakingly oblivious.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 15
Kudos: 151





	Learning the Long Way Around

**Author's Note:**

> It almost feels passé, writing this. Are people still doing Scottish Highlands fics? Regardless, I have read many, I have binged this show, and this conversation popped into my head. I did the conversation first and then added in the prose, which hopefully works. Just very nervous posting in such a talented fandom!

The walks in the Highlands are Martin’s idea, and not just to go cow hunting. (That said, Jon has found his ability to spot a cow at a distance drastically enhanced and somehow he doubts that’s a ‘gift’ granted by a fear entity.) Jon would be perfectly happy to simply curl up in the safehouse for the next month, never seeing another human being again, except that Martin insists on moving and there’s no appeal to him in curling up alone. 

Still. It is a nice change after London, all this nature, and he can’t say he misses the amenities since he doesn’t really eat, commute, attend the theatre, or do any of the other things which warrant packing humanity on top of each other in cities. Also, it’s not the seaside, which is usually where people suggest trips to when they think they need to escape. Between his childhood, Great Yarmouth, and the Lonely, Jon can safely say that he never wants to see the sea again. Presumably at least the last part applies to Martin as well – assuming that the Lonely looked like the ocean to him as well. It seems the kind of thing that could change very easily, and, well, Jon doesn’t want to know and he doesn’t want to Know.

However, he is the Archivist, despite everything, and there are other things that he is very much interested in knowing.

"I'll have you know I didn't...fall in _love_ with you at first sight."

"I never said that I thought that."

"Yeah, well, you implied it."

"Or you inferred that I was implying it."

"Jon!"

Martin scowling never fails to make Jon smile. It’s incongruous and nonsensical, and yet whenever all of that outrage scrunches together on Martin’s face, all Jon can feel is a welling warmth he can only describe as ‘fondness’. Perhaps it’s because he’s seen Martin truly angry; perhaps it’s because he’s seen Martin feel nothing at all. Is it the normality that does it? Only there’s nothing normal about this, really. They never did this…before. Which is Jon’s fault, of course.

"Alright. No sweeping violins or lightning bolts. I'll amend my thoughts accordingly."

"Good."  
"Alright.”

‘Comfortable silences’. To Jon, silences have always been comfortable, or at the very least more comfortable than trying to talk. As a result, it’s never made all that much sense to him as a phrase. Phrases are supposed to convey universally recognisable experiences, certainly, yet for something to be a cliché it has to still convey some meaning beyond the blindingly obvious. (Perhaps an unfortunate choice of words there.) Funny, how he could Know anything and yet this is something he’s learning. That’s good, he thinks. Feeling something first-hand.

The way is easy – as easy as it can be, so that the ground is firm rather than sliding mud and the wind is at their backs. Jon’s never been a Rambler (Tim used to have comments about that, but then Tim used to have comments about everything), so it’s a very good thing he doesn’t have to try too hard. Martin apparently has some experience, which, from the way his eyes dart away and he shrinks a little into his jumper, probably has something to do with cheap and easily cancelled hobbies. (Jon hopes he’s deducing that and not Knowing it.) Loose strands of Jon’s hair wave across his vision, and he tucks them back whenever Martin glances over. He wonders whether Martin wants to do that for him, the way he has once or twice when Jon’s been up to his elbows in attempts at baking.

“…So when did it happen then?"

"What?"

"You falling desperately and irretrievably in love with me."

"I – I could ask you the same question."

"If you want. I'm afraid I don't have a specific moment though, so you'll have to endure a rather long list."

It would be interesting, if Martin asked. Then perhaps Jon would actually know. It’s frustrating, honestly, for something that now feels so basic and integral to himself to have so little conscious explanation. With Elias – Jonah – at least in retrospect Jon can trace how it was done, the bits and pieces and insidious assumptions. This feeling, with Martin, it feels just as transformative and yet he has no explanations whatsoever.

"No convenient statement then?"

"‘Statement of the Archivist regarding falling head over heels for his assistant’?"

"Oh, shut up, you know what I meant."

"I'm just not sure what you want to hear, Martin – or what you want me to hear, for that matter."

"Just forget it, okay?"

"I would if you would stop blushing about it – "

"I'm _not_ – "

" – because the fact that you are makes me think that _you_ have a story here. And you do seem awfully specific in your denials."

Teasing is something Jon has so rarely felt comfortable engaging in. It flowed so easily with Georgie and sometimes he thinks that’s what he missed the most, when they broke up. Not just the sense of flow with another person, but knowing that being himself was alright. That if he got a little caustic, or hit a bit too close to home, she’d still speak to him. She wouldn’t blame him. Hiding away at hers (although he never was actually hidden, was he?), they slipped back into that rhythm so naturally. Georgie, he used to think, was the only person who could make him feel like he was a person too. Like the endless grind of the pantomime of behaviours didn’t have to be all interaction was. 

Of course, these days his humanity’s questionable for reasons other than his perceived bluntness. And Georgie walked away with that reassurance. Except here he is, out for a walk in the countryside with a laugh in his voice and not having to second-guess everything to make someone think he’s likable.

"What, saying it was the moment we met? What's specific about that?"

"It just makes me wonder about the moments afterwards, that's all.”

His mind catches; caught tape.

“...Wait. Really?"

"You had better not have Known that – "

"Martin, you're really quite an incredible shade of red now. And you're stammering, and you won't look at me, and you might start hyperventilating – "

"I won't if you stop talking!”

Jon’s never known anyone who could turn the sort of colours that Martin can manage. Blushing should be fairly straightforward, and Jon doesn’t have to read any self-loathing poetry to guess that Martin hates the way his face blotches like blotting paper. (Admittedly he wouldn’t have that way of phrasing it, which would be a shame, because he rather likes that image.) There shouldn’t be much difference compared with sunburn. It’s just blood under the skin. He shouldn’t be able to tell exactly how Martin is feeling based on the shade in his cheeks – and to be fair, he doesn’t. He can’t – not yet. But he will.

“Okay, okay, so it might not have been...much afterwards, alright? But not first off, because, well, that would have been weird; I saw you around the Institute but I'm not going to fall in love with some man I see wandering around, am I? Christ, I'm not Tim."

"Tim?"

"I – Sorry, old argument there. Discussion. It's not a thing. Anymore. Or ever."

"Right, I'm sorry."

Another gap in the conversation, like they’re stepping around a body or waiting for someone else to speak. It might be both.

"...When I got the job."

"What?"

"Elias – Jonah – whatever, he said I was getting moved downstairs, and I was all panicked because, well, fake CV and all that, and it was like he was waiting for me to say it or say why I couldn’t do the job; and I practically ran down there and Tim and Sasha were, I don’t know, already talking because they were always pally – or I think they were? I don’t know, it's hard untangling that one."

"Martin. Breathe. Go back a step."

Those mourning pauses do have their uses, as well. They let Martin heave one of those settling breaths where Jon could fancy he almost doubles in size, just bringing everything inside him to let it out again. Between buses, over the border, Martin had started to explain what those breaths mean to him. The history of them, why he needs them, how they centre him. To the surprise of both of them, Jon had stopped him. It took a moment to untangle why, which had possibly been too long as Martin’s face slowly began to collapse and he began to draw in, taking inch after inch off of his height. Afraid, Jon had tried to think through out loud, in stutters and fragments. 

Some of it he already knew, from watching. Some of it – the pain – didn’t need to all be dragged out in one go. And Martin doesn’t have to explain himself, not if he doesn’t want to. Not if it hurts.

"Right. I wanted to make tea, try to make a good first impression, only I've never been any good at talking to strangers when they're talking to each other. I could already see how it was going to go, you know? It'd be them, and me, and maybe if I was lucky they'd talk to me? Which was fine, they obviously knew each other. I was just late."

"Martin..."

"We can't all be islands like you, Jon."

"Is that what you thought of me?"

No man is an island. Isn’t that the saying? Although given the current state of the world, perhaps it would be better if Jon still didn’t have any connections. To Elias, or anyone else. He certainly tried, or at least he thought he tried, but he’ll never quite know if he tried hard enough. Somehow, he doubts it. He was always fooling himself in some capacity or another.

"A bit? You always seemed like someone okay being on their own – you made it seem cool, you know? Normal. You never seemed alone the way I am – was. I couldn't imagine you ever thinking like that."

"So you're were attracted to my absolute detachment and obsession with my work."

"You were _driven_. You weren't obsessed – not, well..."

"Not yet."

Sometimes he remembers the paranoia eating away at him. His mind fraying; his eyes catching at shadows, at lights, at his own hair or hands on more than one occasion. Tempting as it is to blame the Stranger, he knows it was him. He gets that way, chasing his own breadcrumbs inside his head as if that puts him in charge. He even misses it, a little. Not because he likes the consequences, or because he likes who the obsessions make him, but he can’t deny that it always felt nice in the moment. Having a purpose. Feeling in control, even if he wasn’t.

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't. Go on."

"You know the next part."

"You asked me not to."

"No, you know it, in the normal way. You were there."

"When you met Tim and Sasha?"

"When I met you."

"...Yes, then, I was there when you met me, Martin. "

He doesn’t think Martin is an idiot, and whenever he tries to remember the shape of his thoughts when he did think that, he doesn’t recognise himself; or he does, and he cringes at the memories. He is not and has never been a likeable individual. That just didn’t use to apply to his own opinion as well.

It’s much better this way, smiling at Martin and wondering what it would be like, to not think any more and just be in love.

"No, I – Do you seriously not remember this?"

"I'm not sure when you're talking about, Martin."

"No, you – I was just trying to find the kitchen, you know? Finally managed to ask what drinks people had; felt stupid going back to ask where the kettle was. Just had to go looking and pretend I knew what I was doing. Messed up already, again."

"It's hard to imagine you not knowing where the kettle is."

"Oh, shut up. You didn't know either."

"Of course not, I'd only just – wait, _then_?"

Jon doesn’t mean to stop walking, nor to do so in such a sudden manner. After the fact, it seems highly appropriate, though. Martin has such a knack for accidentally shocking him out of his own internal commentary – the one he can maintain through most conversations – it really shouldn’t shock him anymore, except that’s precisely the point.

"Exactly! I ran into my boss in the corridor and he didn't know where the kettle was either!"

"Martin, did you fall in love with me because we found the _kitchen_ together?"

"I mean, technically _I_ found it."

"I'm fairly certain I suggested the door..."

"Oh, you guessed and you know it!"

"You could have guessed as well!"

"The first door you pointed at was the stationery cupboard."

"No, it wasn't."

"Yeah, it was. Didn't know what exactly was in there but I didn't think it looked like a room-room door, you know?"

"I really don't remember that."

"But you remember me running into you?"

"Well, obviously, it was the first time we met."

"That's not...obvious, Jon."

"It is to me."

Turnabout’s fair play, he supposes. Except when Jon is startled, he’s fairly certain he’ll just stop altogether, whereas Martin performs all manner of incredible tics, blinking exaggeratedly and touching his face and jerking his hands away. Part of Jon wants to grab his hands, just to reassure him that it’s alright, except he knows perfectly well from his own experience that that’s the last thing he should do. So he just hovers, and waits.

"...Right. So. Er."

"The kitchen."

"Yeah. That...I mean, that wasn't it, but when you were introducing yourself and Tim kept interrupting and you were getting that line between your eyebrows – first time I ever saw that... I'd already met you. And I guess... I knew. That that wasn't...all of you."

"And then I called you incompetent for months."

"Still drank my tea, though. I remembered, when you said it: never say ‘with milk’ because people drown it. Easier to take it black, ‘better than fussing with a teaspoon’."

"I said that?"

"You muttered it. You do that. And then you sort of stared at the kettle and when I said it wouldn't boil faster I don't think you even heard me."

He must have said it. Martin doesn’t imitate people out of cruelty, or as a joke – that was always Tim’s sense of humour, whilst Martin no doubt melted out of mortification in the background. That fits the few clear images Jon has of those times, when Tim would just fill the space with his endless ribbing. If Martin echoes Jon’s voice, it usually means he’s actually heard him say it. The sort of mimicry which might be conscious or might not be. 

He always makes Jon’s voice too soft, though.

Jon should give him something in return. This is getting too personal, he misjudged, and the only way out is through. That’s how this works.

"I knew I shouldn't have the job. It was Sasha's, or...anyone else's, really. All well and good with Elias there telling me I'd earned it – no, that I _would_ earn it. Christ, he said – "

Jon struggles so much to remember Martin in the background, and yet every word, every _moment_ with Elias is burnt in, scorched earth, acid sizzling. All those jokes Elias made to himself; the clues Jon missed; the satisfaction of the past soured by the bile of knowledge. If Jon thought Martin was an idiot, well, he had no idea what the word meant.

Clockwork archivist. Wind him up and watch him go. Out the crack in the walls you left there yourself.

"Jon. Hey. Breathe. Stay with me. He didn't plan _us_ , remember."

"He could have done – "

"Jon. Elias. This isn't something he understands. Remember that."

It’s beyond trite: the incomprehensibility of the simple emotion of love to the villain. But perhaps Martin has a point: while Elias certainly _knows_ it, and might have even felt it at some point in the last two centuries, that doesn’t mean he can know exactly how it feels. He can’t. 

Isn’t this what fantasy teaches you? How to lie to yourself: that evil can’t know the good in you. That you are somehow beyond. That you are _better_.

"...Right. of course."

"So…what about the job? That day?"

"I wasn’t sure what I was doing. I guess I was...nervous, and I...let myself feel that, just a bit, when you showed up."

"And made you feel like an idiot too?"

"I certainly did not feel like an idiot. But i suppose you...snapped me out of it. You do that. "

"Doesn’t really feel like the same sort of thing."

"Maybe to you. And maybe because we've dealt with far worse things since then."

"First meetings still scare the shit out of me."

"Good. You'll still have them."

"No vanishing off?"

"No vanishing off.”

They smile at each other, small twitches of expressions. They’re both relearning that, Jon supposes. The same way Martin is relearning how to stay in a room, now that it’s possible for him to leave. The first time he vanished, they were only supposed to be grabbing a sandwich from a shitty corner shop, and Jon can still feel the panic rising inside him as he found himself alone. Martin made him a cheese sandwich yesterday and he almost threw up on the spot. Funny, how that’s where the body draws the line. Unpredictable as ever.

They’re moving again, without discussing it. Jon sees Martin’s hand hanging loose at his side, and it might be solid. Hopefully.

“...So was that the story, then?"

"Of how we met?"

"You know what I meant, Martin. "

"Heh. I guess I was...sort of hoping you'd forget."

"Hard luck. That day?"

"No. Thought you were...intriguing, maybe. Too scared of being found out, though."

"Then when? The next day?"

" _Jon_..."

"Alright, have your secrets. They're yours, after all."

The wind shifts, changing direction, pulling Jon’s hair backwards now. With any luck, that’s all it does. As endearing as it is, Martin pink-faced and breathless from laughing at the state his hair gets into when it’s not tied back, trying to untangle the mess afterwards is awkward and excruciatingly boring.

"...The week after."

"Seriously?"

"Not love, of course not, but...I might have...um... I might have been writing a poem and you sort of...came into my head."

"...a poem."

"Look, I didn't plan on it, I just – poetry's _pictures_ , okay, you need to have something in your head or it's just words, and maybe you were just...there, and you fitted what I was trying to say. You...made it make sense. That's all."

Jon likes that. He thinks he does, at any rate. It’s what an archivist is supposed to do, isn’t it?

He doesn’t reply; doesn’t know what to do with the enormity of it. But he lets himself reach out and catch Martin’s hand in his, and enjoy the grounding solidity of it. After a pause, Martin’s hand curls around his, like he needs to feel all of it. They’re both here, after all. Jon knows that.


End file.
